


April Fool's in Q-Branch

by ElizabethDurham



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethDurham/pseuds/ElizabethDurham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond's voice was sharp through the phone's excellent wiring:<br/>“Should I be worried?”<br/>Q sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand, the other hand still gliding across his keyboard, the phone sandwiched between ear and shoulder,<br/>“Bond, I know you don’t make it a habit to keep track of dates, but today happens to be April first. There are no hanging threats to national security at the moment, and don’t promise to be any for at least another week. Q branch is dead board; R & D is in a similar state. Everyone in this little basement, including me, is looking for something, anything to do, and I have a sneaking suspicion April Fools is about to be celebrated in a rather unorthodox manner. As I said. Not. Now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And so it Begins

MI6 was not a place for pranks. The cool, white walls, the whirring of computers, and the threat of imminent death and destruction somewhat discouraged such frivolity.   
It was probably a good thing, then, that Q-Branch did not entirely count itself as a part of the main intelligence grid. MI6 had yet to adjust itself to the myriad of computer geeks it suddenly found itself in command of as the new age forced itself upon them, and the computer geeks had yet to accept taking commands from II6.   
“Q?”  
“Bond, now is not a good time,” Q hissed into the mouthpiece as he picked up his work mobile.   
“Q?” Bond’s voice again, but with a darker undertone. An unspoken question. Q rolled his eyes  
“No, Bond, I am not tied up in a cellar somewhere, with another man, or tied up in a cellar with another man. Now, as I said, now is not a good time.”  
He almost heard Bond’s smirk,  
“Am I allowed to ask why?”   
“No.”  
“Should I be worried?”  
Q sighed, rubbing his temple with one hand, the other hand still gliding across his keyboard, the phone sandwiched between ear and shoulder,  
“Bond, I know you don’t make it a habit to keep track of dates, but today happens to be April first. There are no hanging threats to national security at the moment, and don’t promise to be any for at least another week. Q branch is dead board; R & D is in a similar state. Everyone in this little basement, including me, is looking for something, anything to do, and I have a sneaking suspicion April Fools is about to be celebrated in a rather unorthodox manner. As I said. Not. Now.”   
A quick jerk of his chin, and Q ended the call, executing a few more integral keystrokes as he finished shoring up any and all gaps in his firewalls, double-encrypting, triple-encrypting, and all but disconnecting his personal computer from the network. He had seen Q-Branch’s furtive glances and smirks, had noticed the rather large list of unsanctioned projects being undertaken, had seen R & D coming in and out, exchanging what looked suspiciously like blueprints with Q-branch members, and generally giving the impression of an impending apocalypse approaching.   
Q wasn’t an idiot. There was a reason Q-branch was usually constantly working; boredom, a room of geniuses, and a research and development lab were a dangerous combination. All hell was about to break loose, and Q intended to be ready.   
Good. Now that was done. Q had done the best he could, given the short time frame, and now turned to his e-mails, on the off chance that this thing (whatever ‘this thing’ was) started before he could deal with whatever pressing issues presented themselves.   
He scrolled down through a variety of Bond’s messages, shooting off a quick, pacifying response, then reached M’s status updates, quickly archiving them out of sight. A few from Q-Branch: one from Eaton, one of the branch’s newer members, one from John, and finally, one from…  
Bloody Hell.   
Q cursed himself as he opened Sarah’s e-mail to a blank page, watching as his screen, then each successive screen in Q-Branch, was replaced by a full-color image from one of the surveillance tapes of Bond and Q kissing in an empty corridor, Bond’s hand flat against Q’s chest, Q’s eyes all but fluttering.   
“Sarah!” He yelled, as all of Q-Branch did the same. His fingers were already flitting across the keyboard, analyzing, twisting, breaking, desperately attempting to remove the offending image. In three minutes, his screen was back to normal, although the rest of Q-Branch was still struggling vainly with Sarah’s virus. Q swiveled around in his special chair, padded to accommodate long hours at a keyboard, swinging until he could stare Sarah straight in the eye, raising one delicate eyebrow in a simple question:  
Do you really think you’re good enough for this?  
Sarah’s answer was a simple, quick smile.   
That was the problem with the newbies. They all saw Q’s stature and gangly limbs and automatically assumed his mind was equally undeveloped.  
Q never tired of proving them wrong.   
Never let it be said that Q didn’t posses a sense of humor. As his subordinates tried to tackle Sarah’s codes, with varying success, Q spent a moment reversing the link, and soon he was searching through Sarah’s internet history, personal files, a rather amusing personal blog, and personal e-mail account. Five minutes since Q and Bond’s portrait adorned Q-branch, and the worst of Sarah’s personal life was scrolling across not just the quartermaster’s domain, but all of MI6. Nothing with a screen was safe from Q and his codes.   
Q turned again to grin at Sarah, whose eyes had gone wide in shock.   
Check and mate.   
Q checked his watch. 8:45. It was going to be a long day.


	2. The Illusion of Privacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q would rather not get his hands dirty; he'd much rather let others do the actual pranks.

R & D had never made better time. With the help of a very enthusiastic Q-Branch, it turned out gadgets on the fly, cobbling together different parts on the fly, taking up the challenge with good-natured zeal. It wasn’t often they were allowed to play just for the fun of it, and it seemed most of the engineering geeks were making full use of the opportunity.   
First, there was a remote control for the elevators, to control which floors it stopped on, which buttons lit up, what music was played, etc. Warren got hold of it at around nine, and the elevator was stuck on ‘Yellow Submarine’ until John took pity on the rest of MI6 and restored it to its normal Bach.   
Then, rather bizarrely, there was a variation on the laser watch that could be aimed at any computer server, heating up the interior until the fan went into overload, wheezing and whirring until the noise became unbearable.   
Sarah had taken control of the fire sprinkler system, wreaking well-placed revenge on a variety of adversaries within MI6, including a few of the double-0 agents, the eventual retribution from which Q did not envy her for.  
As for Q-Branch itself, the computers were rarely busier. To begin with, one of the younger agents had de-activated all but M’s access to Q-Branch, effectively cutting them off in the case of disgruntled agents (mostly for 007’s benefit, Q overheard with some amusement). Sarah and Eaton, however, had broken the self-imposed quarantine to wreak good-natured havoc with the bureaucrats who worked above. Eli and Harrison were busy driving the 00 agents mad from within the sanctuary of Q-branch, at the same time trying to formulate evidence that it had been Warren’s fault to begin with in preparation for the agent’s fury.   
Q was working on something a bit more elaborate.   
He had a friend in R & D, Fray, who shared his love for the subtle, the easily overlooked. He and Q had been working on a prototype for quite a while, with the final aim in mind of cracking open secure networks, but it seemed then was as good a time as any to give it a trial run.   
It was a small black box, flat as may be, that could fold itself into a pocket-sized rectangle. Programed with the chosen network’s specifics, and mounted properly on a server, the little box could effectively disable any and all firewalls in place, as well as inhibiting the production of more.   
Q intended to, temporarily of course, expose any and all files not of a high enough security clearance to be a risk, that is, any sort of personal file anyone had ever saved, to anyone who cared to look for them.   
He composed a quick e-mail to be sent to all the building, saying simply:  
A new prototype of the machine I call ‘Code Black’ will be tested this morning. Be advised that all firewalls will be down from approximately five minutes from now to whenever our test has garnered significant results. All computers are, of course, connected, so I might advise some caution when searching, as you will have access to your co-worker’s files as well.  
-Q  
(p.s.- My computer, of course, will remain offline for security reasons, as will M’s. I will not take well to anyone attempting to breech my firewalls. Not that you could. Q-Branch: you may be good, but there’s a reason I’m in charge.)  
And with that ill-disguised invitation to hack MI6, Q padded down to the server room, attached the black box to the central router, and pressed the green button before shifting it out of sight. Smiling to himself, Q walked back to his computer, sitting back and steepling his fingers, splitting his screen into several factions so he could watch the glorious confusion as Q-Branch, then most of MI6, went to hell.  
As much fun as messing with other people was, Q found getting other people to do the damage infinitely more amusing. During the course of the next few hours, the following discoveries were made:  
-Henry found Baily’s lover’s e-mails. Ah well, Q shrugged, they had it coming.   
-003, one of the more technologically competent of the agents, was busy wreaking his revenge for what he would later describe as ‘the phone incident,’ part of Eli and Harrison’s rampage, including a transfer of the Mission impossible theme song as the permanent ringtone for all 00 mobile devices. Eaton’s draft of the 70-page long yearly report was slowly being re-written in a very uncomplimentary fashion, and Sarah’s plan for the original hacking tool was being replaced by a cupcake recipe as a result. Q couldn’t help but smile as he watched 003 grin on the surveillance footage, laughing to himself as he wrought his revenge.   
-Fray, who had been ready for the sudden destruction of privacy, was busy surfing through the rest of R & D’s ongoing projects, saving anything he found either to be discouraged, or encouraged. Or just to be pirated, as often happened in R & D, Q had been informed.   
-006 had removed his computer from the link by the simple expedite of destroying it, giving Fray’s team a rather dangerous example, and leading to a series of well-placed explosions below, before some smart ass reminded them that all of R & D had replaced their computers with models there would stand through a nuclear blast following the Silvia incident.   
-Martin, the circuitry nerd of mI6, had taken the firewall devastation as something of inspiration, expanding it to the phone lines so if anyone flipped open their phone at any given time, they would hear whatever other conversation was going on at the same time.   
-001, who was the only 00 agent (surprisingly) to have destroyed his computer recently enough to have merited an indestructible model, was seriously testing the meaning of ‘indestructible.’  
-Sarah had purloined usernames and passwords to everyone in Q-Branch’s social networking accounts.   
-Q rather liked the idea, and proceeded to copy the list from Sarah.  
-After pirating the personal secrets of everyone in the building, Q set about studiously ignoring M’s increasingly furious e-mails. One of the perks of genius, he was finding, was practically guaranteed job security.   
It was 10:15 before one of Q-Branch figured out first that the disturbance must actually have a physical source, something they had trouble understanding to begin with (actually, Q thought R & D might have given them the idea), then, that it must be in the server room. Even so, it was 10:30 before they finally located and detached the black box, restoring MI6 to normality and some sense of privacy. Q grinned. 10:30. Oh, the things he could to with the rest of his day and his computer.


	3. Earl Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warren gets ahold of Q's tea. The results are disastrous.

“Q”  
“Bond”  
“Q, this is ridiculous. 006 is ready to tear everyone in Q-Branch apart.”   
“Hm, yes,” Q replied vapidly, the majority of his attention fixed on the open drawer at his feet. The empty, open drawer. He had to admit, he was rather impressed.  
“Q? Are you there?”   
“Bond, 006 can do whatever the hell he wants to us when it comes to that, but for now, I have other things to deal with.”  
He hung up.   
He stared at the empty drawer, until now full of Q’s supply of Earl Grey, locked, encoded, password protected, and blast proof. And it was empty.   
You could never bee too careful, with people like Sara around.   
“Tea?” Q called out to the rest of Q-Branch, who immediately stopped chattering to look at their boss, “not that I’m not impressed, but…” he trailed off, steepling his fingers again, as was his habit, staring at each person in turn.  
There was a very good reason, Q thought, as he watched Warren, one of the newer recruits trying and failing to contain his laughter, that members of Q-Branch were not required to participate in field work. As a general rule, lying was not their strong suit.   
Q beckoned Warren forward imperiously. Warren grinned even wider, lifting a box out of his desk and tossing it up to Q. Q, cursing himself, fumbled it, dropped it, and did his best to ignore the laughter going around his subordinates. He sighed, stooping to retrieve the purloined leaves as he carefully noted down the ones brazen enough to laugh, signing them up as his next guinne pigs when he finally finished the virus he had been working on.   
There was a hot water heater in the Q-branch room, blessedly still open even after the self-imposed lockdown. His favorite earl grey recovered, Q wasted no time in boiling water and dropping the leaves in, vision going slightly blurry as he held the mug up to his mouth. His vision slid in and out of focus, and he blinked rapidly. He wasn’t that tire…he had gotten, what, four hours of sleep last night? More than usual.   
It was nothing, he decided, picking up his cup and adding the required amount of sugar (he never took milk), before gliding back to his desk, sipping gently at thee brown liquid, his mind far, far away.   
He looked over the rest of Q-Branch, distantly seeing their faces, open and painted with expectation. Expectation of what? Warren was doubled over in laughter, not even trying to be subtle about it. Suddenly, Q found it very hard to care. Why was that?   
He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes again, pursing his lips. What was wrong with him? He nearly stumbled the last few steps to his desk, pulling out his tin of tealeaves again and sniffing at them warily. There was another scent beneath the usual sweet aroma. Something chemical. Something he’d smelt before in Fray’s lab as he watched the R & D professional reduce his assistant to a giggling, hapless, mess.   
Fuck. 

An hour later, Bond called Q again,  
“Q, what the hell is going on?”  
“hahah….” For a moment, Bond could hear nothing but Q’s feeble laughter.  
“Q?” Wary, this time.   
“Bond…James…” he stuttered, the agent’s name almost lost in gales of laughter, “Hey…hey, did you see…did you see what’s on the pictures? Did you see?”   
“Q, what the bloody hell is wrong with you?”   
Q had taken the mission surveillance videos of all the agents of MI6, cobbling together a veritable collection of their biggest slip-ups. Then, of cores, he had projected these videos onto all MI6 screens. 004 pointing his gun at an empty alleyway, only to find the scuttling sound he had nearly screamed at was, in fact, a stray kitten. 003 flipping over the lip of a boat and falling headfirst into the Hudson. 007 on his first mission in Dubai, cartwheeling into a fish catcher’s stall.   
Q had giggled like a schoolgirl as his reign of terror continued unabated. He was currently working on a similar compilation for the rest of MI6 departments.   
“I’m fine, Bond. Did you like the one of you?” another giggle. Bond sucked in a breath,  
“Q, I have heard you giggle exactly twice in my life. The first was after exposure to considerable stress, the second after…well, after our first night.”  
“Oh, Bond!” Q warbled in a high falsetto, giggling insatiably, “Oh, James!”  
“Q, who do I have to kill?”  
“Hm, now that you mention it…Q mused, spinning around in circles in his special swivel chair and wondering just how mad M would be if he decided to test out the two missiles he had concealed in the arm-rests. He decided it would be an experiment for later.   
“Q, I’m coming down,” Bond barked into eh phone, flicking his mobile shut and marching to the elevator, wondering what in all hell had happened to his quartermaster.


	4. Paintballs and Power Outages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the 00 division gets paintballed, the power goes out, and Q ends up tied to a chair giggling like an idiot. Enjoy.

“Oh, Q?”  
“Not now, Warren.”  
“Q, agent 007 is trying to bang down the door. Along with most of the special agent division. Advice as to how to proceed?”  
Q giggled. He seemed to be giggling a lot lately. How strange.   
“R & D have some paintball guns in the storage locker, don’t they?” he asked. Warren nodded,  
“Yes, why?”  
“And there are ventilation holes in the Q-Branch barricade, correct?”  
“Yes.”  
“And those holes are, oh, I don’t know, just wide enough for a gun barrel?”  
A grin spread across Warren’s face. He nodded once, then disappeared on a mission to seal Q-Branch’s fate as the most internally hunted group in MI6.   
The thought brought on another round of giggling from Q who was, predictably, still on his computer.   
MI6 had stringent security protocols extending to fire sprinklers, escape routs, and, yes, electronically activated foam-sprayers.   
It was almost too easy.   
First, he activated the fire sprinklers, soaking the hated accounting department in flame-retardant liquid. Then, of course, Q had to experiment with the foam sprayers.   
It just so happened that they were of the newest variation, a model with an adjustable nozzle that could be directed remotely to efficiently douse a fire in the minimal amount of time. A side effect of this was they could also be directed towards certain people’s faces by a rather intoxicated quartermaster looking for something to do.   
He wondered idly how long it would take Brandon to get the stuff out of his beard.   
He took another sip of tea, staring at it for a moment as if there was something about it…something he should remember. No, it was gone. He shrugged and took another sip, promptly breaking into another round of giggling for absolutely no reason whatsoever.   
The sound of paintball guns rung out through Q-Branch, followed by the roar of rightly furious00 agents. Q pulled up the hall camera, calling out suggestions from his perch until the half-dozen or so agents outside each sported some sort of motif in paintball splatters across their chest. Five minutes, and they retreated, leaving Q-Branch to its victory.   
Until, that is, the power went out.   
“Fuck!” this was Sarah.   
The lights had been shut off, the desktop computers, the cameras, the…oh god.   
Q groaned. The door’s fallback locks were connected to the electrical grid. One well-placed blast would blow them wide open.   
Q stopped giggling. He pulled his laptop from its drawer, flipping it open before realizing that anything he might seek to control would be as dead as the lights.   
In the pitch-darkness, illuminated only be the occasional, glowing, batter-powered screen, the sound of two dozen computer geeks panicking simultaneously contributed to a rather ear-splitting din. Sarah contributed her volley of cusses to the silence, showing an astonishing creativity and knowledge of foreign languages. Q filed away the information for later, especially when she went through Latin, Arabic, mandarin, and German in quick succession.   
The cussing was, however, rather outdone by the loud explosion (C4, probably, Q though, most likely from the exploding pen Bond had never returned. It would be just like him to keep it on his person) that rocked the room.   
Q squeaked, then giggled, then shut himself up as dark shapes began flitting through the room, followed by a variety of distress calls from Q-Branch members, ranging from girlish squeal to flopping hands and feet, as the 00 agents did what they did best: neutralized the enemy.   
In the few moments left to him after the explosion, Q did what he did best. He typed a few strings of code into his computer, letting it fall to the ground as strong hands tied his wrists to his chair.   
A minute and a half and it was all over. The lights flicked back on, revealing an incapacitated Q-Branch, many of them spinning idly around in their swivel chairs, arguing with their captors over whether o no they deserved their current state. In most cases, Q reflected, the answer was probably yes.   
“Bond,” Q could feel the agent lurking behind him, the proverbial elephant in the room.   
“Q,” Bond’s hand fastened onto the back of the quartermaster’s chair, spinning him around until he was facing him. Bond’s ice-cold eyes inches away from Q’s own.   
Q tried to stop himself. Really, he did, but for some reason, everything seemed so damn funny. Soon, he was a giggling mess before the special agent, all but tears running down his face.   
“Q, I’ll ask again, who do I need to kill?” bond asked.  
“What about me?” Q laughed, “You do have me tied to a chair, James. Why not try to kill me?”  
Bond straightened up, roaring at he room at large,  
“What has happened to my Quartermaster?”  
Everyone who was not a specially trained agent flinched.  
“No….no…” Q put in feebly, still giggling, “I’m fine. And come on, Bond; I’m tied to a chair. Don’t say the sight of me so restrained does nothing to you.”  
Bond chocked.   
Warren, tied up with 004 looming over him, couldn’t help but snicker. In all fairness, the rest of Q-Branch was grinning too. Their boss, acting like a lovesick teenager with James Bond. How could you not laugh?  
Bond wasn’t laughing. He strode over to Warren, grasping the unfortunate tech’s throat in one hand and staring at him like he intended to strangle the poor boy with just his eyes. By the choking noises he was making, it might not have been as fantastical as it sounded.   
“Bond! James Bond!” Q called out from his raised plinth; twirling around in circles for what seemed like the sheer fun of it, “wait!”  
“Why?” Bond growled. Q, rather predictably, giggled.   
“Because I’ve got a surprise for you!”  
“And what is that?”  
“You really shouldn’t have turned the power back on.”


	5. Never, Never, Turn Your Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You should never turn your back on a room full of 00 agents. Especially not ones with scores to settle.

Q knew codes like Bond knew handguns. In the spare moments between the power outage and the arrival of the 00 squadron, he had activated a self-directed program he had conceived after the attach on Accounting.   
Two minutes after the return of the lights, it hacked into the thermal imaging cameras, locking onto all targets showing signs of recent physical activity (i.e., rushing into Q-Branch to subdue a bunch of techs). It then took control of Q-Branch’s fire extinguishers, blasting said targets with high-speed, quick-dry foam. Porous enough to breath through, but effective as full-body chains for keeping a subject trapped.   
The two minute mark had been reached. Q watched with satisfaction as all seven 00’s were hit in the face by a projectile of foam, followed quickly by several others until each agent had been quite thoroughly defeated by a few fire extinguishers and a laptop. Well, all the 00’s, plus Warren, who’s blood pressure was still up from being threatened by James Bond. Q giggled. Oh, this was too easy.   
It was only after the rest of Q-Branch had finished laughing, however, that they realized a slight flaw in Q’s plan. They were now thirteen techs with hands tied to their respective chairs and no one to untie said hands.   
What followed was a good fifteen minutes or so of idle rolling about and bumper-car style crashes as swivel chairs were propelled around the room by feet unused to any form of physical activity, aligning themselves with a partner before attempting to work blindly at the knot opposite. The sequence repeated over and over around Q-Branch: two chairs would crash into each other, one or both techs would complain of hurt arms or legs, the two would position themselves in the most mathematically advantageous position, both would attempt to untie the other’s hands, they would without fail get in each other’s way, shouting would ensue, then they would return to the knots which, being tied by 00’s, would inveritably be beyond the skill of Q-Branch’s rather inexperienced staff.   
Q, for his part, watched the chaos below, giggling again, before he figured out that, being as he was up stairs, and the rest of his team down stairs, his odds of being un-tied were limited, if nonexistent. In another fit of giggling, he then decided the best way to change this would be to propel himself as fast as possible at the edge of the plinth, falling face-first down onto the thinly carpeted floor and activating the airbags and tiny missiles simultaneously, squishing his face even further out of shape, breaking his glasses, and setting the nearest computer bank on fire. The upside to all this was that the heat from the missiles effectively burned through the ropes binding Q, leaving him giggling, with singed wrists, but free.   
Twenty minutes, and all of Q-Branch was untied, joking and sharing a bottle of Vodka Sarah had brought in a few months back, against regulations, of course, but Q-Branch was never one from rules. As was demonstrated by their current topic of conversation:  
“I think we should just tie them all onto a raft and let them float down the Thames!” Benjamin cut in excitedly. Sarah rolled her eyes,  
“Yes, you moron, and why don’t we just hand in our resignation papers at the same time? No, it’s got to be something more subtle. Why not just leave them outside M’s office, still covered in foam, with a list of suggestions for 00 training?”  
there was a general laugh shared at this suggestion. They had been discussing possible solutions for the agents still trapped beneath blankets of foam outside. Well, Q-Branch called them solutions. The agents would no doubt have gone for something a bit less genial.   
Q, for his part, was nursing an aching head in the corner, his tea gone, a slight buzzing sound in his ears. He was still giggling, but he had just realized he didn’t quite remember what had happened during the last few hours or so. It was like there was a haze, or a curtain…  
“We could just leave them there,” Henry proposed, but he was instantly shot down.   
The babbling continued that way for another few minutes, Q still nursing his head and mumbling under his breath. Until, that is, he heard the laugh.   
He should have known, he thought, looking back on it, he should have known long before then. It was unacceptable not to have seen it coming. The rest of Q-Branch should have as well, but he was Q, and it was his job, above all others, to see what would happen before it did.   
And this was just so obvious. Only an idiot would turn their back on a room full of 00 agents without making doubly sure that whatever restraints were being employed were double-checked-triple-checked-titanium-bonded-alloy-keycoded-voice-recognition-blast-proof-knife-proof-fail-safe-alarmed-missile-enabled-tranquilizing-coated-in-impenetrable-tempered-steel. Fire foam was none of these things. Q had been living with 007 in his flat for long enough to have seen this coming a mile off.   
So, when he heard Bond’s laugh just behind his head, he didn’t flinch, didn’t jump, just sighed with frustration and watched as the lights went out again and he was picked up and slung over a much larger shoulder than his own, mouth covered, and carried up out of Q-Branch, away from any of his little gadgets or other tools.   
That was how all of MI6’s techno-geeks ended up trussed hand and foot, a few select members gagged, sitting in the 00 operations room, surrounded by a good number of very angry men (and one woman), all with licenses to kill and very good reasons for doing so.   
Yet for some reason, all Q could think of as he giggled up at Bond’s looming face, was how beautiful 007’s muscles were, and how damn much he wanted…  
“Bond…” he whispered. Well, he thought he whispered. For some reason whispering was very hard when one was fighting back giggles at the same time, “Bond, I’m booooaaared. Why don’t you just take me right now, with those strooooong arms, I wouldn’t put up a fight. Mm….how about it?”  
Bond made a little choked noise. 004 let out something that in a less imposing man would be called a snort. The rest of Q-Branch was looking at their boss wide-eyed, agog that their posh, proper Q was suddenly…suddenly…  
“Fuck me!” Q burst out again, then laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever said. Bond looked paralyzed. A few members of Q-Branch were laughing as hard as Q himself. The rest of the 00 agents seemed to be fighting to keep their magnanimous masks in place.  
“Come on, Bond, fuck me,” Q giggled again, his eyes loosing focus, “Bite me like you do, you know I don’t mind.”  
Bond stared, still not quite comprehending the new, rather less lucid, version of his quartermaster. A few of the double-0’s had given in and were smiling crookedly.   
“Oh, Bond,” Q warbled in his falcetto again, “James! You know I watch whenever you fuck a woman on your missions. How can I not? You’re so damn-“   
Bond finally worked his way out of the stupor Q’s sudden devolvement into dirty language had caused. He undid his tie in a moment, wrapping it around Q’s head and tying it firmly.   
“Pity,” 004 muttered, “he’s funny when he’s high.”   
Bond shot him a look. Even through the gag, he could tell Q was still laughing. Bond didn’t take well to people messing with his things; Q was no exeption. His Q.   
“004, would you like me to try drugging your wife sometime, just to see what happens,” he hissed. 004 smirked slightly, but didn’t answer.   
“Didn’t think so,” Bond said, standing up and surveying the rest of their captives. His eyes swept over them all, staring at each face in turn until he got to Warren. He grinned. Not a nice grin; it was the smile a hunter gets when he spots a particularly slow and fat rabbit in the crosshairs.   
“Warren, is that your name,” he almost purred, reaching over and undoing Warren’s gag, “hello, Warren. Care to tell me what has happened to my Quartermaster?”


	6. I'm Going to Kill Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q comes out of his drugged stupor. Bond finds it all very amusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! sorry for the gap. Hoping to wind this up sometime soon, although there will be a 00 drinking game before the end. Thanks so much everyone for reading!

"Q?"  
"Bond."  
"How do you feel?"  
"Like someone dipped my brain in concentrated hydrochloric acid then set it on fire."  
Q rubbed his head gingerly, wondering what the hell was wrong with him and, perhaps more importantly, exacrly why he couldn't quite remember what he had been doing the past few hours.  
Bond, on the other hand, was just glad his lover had stopped behaving like a raving lunatic, no matter how amusing a lunatic Q made.  
"Tell me, Bond, drugs, alcohol, or did I just get off a plane?" Q mumbled, his attempt at humor loosing some of its intensity as he heard his voice crack. Bond smiled, scooping up the smaller man in his arms and carrying him away from the 00 agents and assorted members of Q-Branch, the former happily discussing revenge on the latter.  
"Questionable," Bond admitted, "it could easily be some form of concentrated alcohol, but I'm inclined to think drugs."  
"Who do I have to kill?"  
Bond grinned again, first at Q's phrasing, so like his own, then at Q's arm, which was lying across his forehead as his dark hair dangled across Bond's bicep, the very picture of a swooning maiden. He made a mental note to get to the surveillance tapes before Q and save a clip of it for later.  
"Your assistant, Warren, seems to have put something in your tea. Really, Q, accepting drinks from strangers?"  
"I didn't. Did i?"  
Bond smirked. He really didn't remember. He played briefly with the idea of keeping up the impression that it had been Q's own fault, just to see the quartermaster's face, but then thought better of it. In all likelihood, it would only scare Q off drinking for some time yet, and Bond most definetally did not want that. Q had a very low alcohol tolerance, and an even lower awareness of that fact, something 007 took advantage of more often than was probably prudent.  
"No. From what I can figure, he mixed it in with your tea leaves. No drinks from strangers, just a fault in your security system. How many locks did you have on that cabinet?"  
"Drawer," Q corrected, arm still over his eyes, "and it was six, for your information. I still don't know how they get past the thumb scanner."  
Bond rolled his eyes. The number of viable fingerprints Q probably left around Q-Branch would have taken him a year to count. When he used the coffee machine. When he poured hot water. Anytime he leaned against someone else’s desk. His keyboard and mouse must have been coated with the things. Trust a computer geek not to realize.  
"Bond?" the arm lowered, revealing Q's slightly unfocused eyes, painted with an attempt at severity, along with a healthy degree of annoyance, "are you carrying me?"  
"Yes," he said easily.  
"Put me down, 007. Now," Q nearly shouted, drawing the half of MI-6 that hadn't already been staring to his rather feeble state. The Quartermaster blushed scarlet, staring vehemently at Bond who, obligingly, set the man carefully on his feet, keeping his hand at the small of his back until Q swatted him away, straightening shakily and stumbling a few steps before collapsing on top of the nearest clear desk. He moaned.  
"Would you like to be carried again?" Bond asked innocently. Q opened his eyes again expressly to glare at his lover, before shutting them again, hand back across his forehead, in a position Bond was sure he would have snapped out of instantly had he known how it looked.  
"Shut the hell up, Bond. What happened to me?"  
"You were drugge-"  
"No, I mean, what the bloody hell happened to me in the…" he considered for a moment, "four hours I can't remember?”  
Bond just stared.  
"Bond?"  
Silence. Q opened his eyes again, catching 007's best poker face and sighing heavily.  
"Give it to me," he demanded.  
Bond had a sudden image of Q at his computer, tearing the boy's – Warren's – life apart, and he wondered if for once he might be outclassed when it came to revenge. Then again, it wasn't like there was anything to match a knife to the kidneys and a long, slow, deathbed.  
"Are you sure you don't remember?" he asked hopefully. He sure as hell didn't want to be the one to break the news.  
"I remember flashes," Q confided, scrunching up his eyes like he did when Bond took it into his head to nip at the sensitive skin just behind the quartermaster's neck, "nothing concrete. Oh, wait!" He held out a hand, palm up, like a diva stopping the show, "It's fitting together now. Interesting. It's like binary code, the memory. Fits…fits…fits…"  
Bond regarded his quartermaster warily as a man who was usually articulate to a fault was reduced to a stuttering, half-drugged, soon-to-be-furious, mess.  
"Oh god," he whispered, eyes still firmly shut, "Oh god. Bond. I didn't."  
"Whatever it is, you probably did," Bond admitted tiredly.  
"But…but….oh god. M is going to murder me."  
"She and another half dozen people," Bond muttered. Q moaned again,  
“I’m going to kill Warren.”  
“Get in line,” 007 grunted, and Q flashed him a quick grin from beneath his arm.  
“Am I fired?” he asked Bond, at the same time realizing MI6 couldn’t afford to let him go. Q as a disgruntled ex-employee was more than the secret service was prepared to handle.  
“No,” Another voice. Harsher. Higher. Q blinked, making the effort to sit up, only to find M standing in front of him, arms crossed, looking murderous, “As you well know, Q.”  
“M,” Q sighed, “I would say ‘I can explain,’ but –“  
“Damn it, Q! your entire department is currently tied up, being subjected to a variety of frankly very creative punishments by our 00 branch, all of whom are inexplicable covered in paint, our system has forgotten the meaning of privacy, Henry is currently sobbing in the loo, and if I didn’t know precisely what you would do to me and all of MI-6, I would fire you. Without question.”  
Q thought he had a point. That didn’t mean he was any less glad of his apparently unlimited job security.  
“Sir,” this was Bond, smooth and emotionless as always, “with all respect, if anyone needs to find himself a new line of employment, it’s Warren, from Q-Branch. I think you’ll find he’s been testing R&D’s chemical weapons on MI-6 employees, especially those that can result in certain….judgment impediments. Am I understood?”  
M looked from Bond to Q for a moment, impassive, before staring up at the celing. Q could have sworn he caught a smile on the man’s face.  
“Q was drugged? Our Q?” he finally said, “And we’re all still breathing?”  
Bond snorted,  
“Barely. Now, if you’re not going to fire my quartermaster, may we leave? I have a feeling you want him away from his computers as much as the rest of us.”  
M nodded tiredly, waving them away before stalking over to the rest of Q-Branch and the 00’s, embarking on what sounded like a furious rant, accompanied by a number of withering glares.  
“Bond,” Q asked, “tell me, have you ever driven a car that I have not later been forced to consign to the scrap heap?”  
Bond considered for a moment,  
“Not that I know of,” he admitted. Q grimaced slightly, standing up, but still leaning heavily against the desk behind him,  
“Well damn. Let’s hope this is a first. Because there’s no way I’m driving back on my own.”  
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his car keys and tossing them to Bond, who caught them with a deft grab and a razor smile.  
“The fact that you don’t trust me is wounding, Q,” he smirked.  
“I have your file on my computer, 007,” Q shot back, “trust is a luxury I am not afforded.”  
Bond’s head quirked to one side, acknowledging that Q had a point.  
“Which lot?” he asked, swinging the car keys by their chain around his finger, “and may I carry you?”  
“2B and no way in bloody hell,” Q managed, staggering to his feet and glaring at Bond, “Now move, James, before I fall over.”


	7. Fuck, Kill, or Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q wants nothing more than to go home and rest. Bond has other plans.

The ride back to Q’s London flat took the better part of 15 minutes, during which Q alternated between mentally berating himself for the April Fool’s fiasco, and yelling at Bond for his apparent conviction that a 35kph speed limit around a tight, residential corner was a polite suggestion.  
Q hadn’t been aware that his little BMW could actually teeter on two wheels.  
“Bond!” he gritted out, “the next time I hear my car squeal like a dying computer, I will disable the brakes on the next vehicle you take out. And I don’t care if it’s a helicopter!”  
“Q,” Bond took another corner at reckless speed, jerking the wheel around and ignoring the mess of honking horns and shell-shocked pedestrians strewn in his wake, “what, may I ask, was the point of buying a BMW capable of 240kmp if you never intend to drive it over 60?”  
“Sane people can’t like nice cars?”  
“No. And since when were you considered sane?”  
“Since you became the comparison point, 007.”  
Q gripped at the car door and, to his eternal shame, Bond’s arm as they swung around yet another impossibly tight corner at a speed that made Q’s head sway. Bond looked over bemusedly, flexing his bicep under Q’s hand and raising an eyebrow. Q let go quickly, suddenly very interested in the London streets flying past. He wondered briefly why they hadn’t been pulled over yet, then remembered his license plate number was part of the MI-6 mainframe, and therefore any cop on the radar was forbidden from ticketing them. He wondered if Bond’s car received the same treatment, or if the previous M had finally given into her more vindictive tendencies and revoked that status some time in the past. If she hadn’t, Q was most certainly going to.  
“Are you scared, Q?” Bond almost purred. Q nodded emphatically,  
“I am not one of your Bond girls, James. My suicidal tendencies do not include being fucked, then killed, in the same car, thank you.”  
Bond laughed,  
“Who says it’ll be in the same car?”  
Q rolled his eyes, infinitely pleased to see his apartment building slide into view. His flat was on the top floor, the penthouse suit, because Q absolutely refused to be more than 10 feet away from his satellites and wires. Q actually owned the entire building (it had been a good year for stock prices. Or, that’s what he told M), so reserving the entire thirteenth floor for himself hadn’t been too much of an issue.  
“Thank you for the near-death experience, Bond,” Q griped, slamming the car door and staggering his way to the front entrance, fumbling with the key as he cussed quietly in French. Bond’s much steadier hands soon took over, clicked open the lock, and held the door open for his quartermaster, who debated an attempt at aloft annoyance, before admitting defeat and accepting the offered hand to help him over the lintel and into the elevator, pressing ‘13’ and watching silently as the doors slid shut.  
“Bond,” Q scowled, “you are not coming up.”  
“Why not?” Bond asked, with customary bluntness.  
“Because I’ve just had one of the most embarrassing days of my life, am still recovering from being drugged, and am not in any mood to fuck, drink or kill. Unless you’ve miraculously acquired another skill set since I last met you, I will not be entertaining you tonight.”  
Q turned away from agent 007, hoping he sounded resolute, but probably just coming across peeved. The thing with James Bond, Q had found, was that the very act of forbidding something, somehow transformed a simple fact into a challenge, and, by proxy, the most attractive course of action to a man who was probably in desperate need of a psychologist. But then, they all were. Fucking 00’s. They were like psychotic school children with guns and ridiculously engorged sex drives.  
Bond made no move to halt the elevator’s progress, and Q sighed,  
“Fine,” he relented, mostly because he knew better than to argue, but partly because it was always better to end these things on his own terms, “but no killing, probably no fucking, and you are to leave my good port alone, is that clear?”  
“Of course,” Bond said smoothly, turning to look at Q with that dangerous glint in his eye.  
“Bond-“ Q began, but was cut off as Bond wrapped his arms around the lanky quartermaster and sealed his lips with a kiss.  
Being kissed by James Bond can most accurately be likened to getting very, very drunk, Q thought. Your mind shuts down. Your inhibitions seem to crumble like ash. You seem to loose control of your extremities. It is pleasure until you feel just slightly faint.  
However, sometimes Q didn’t want to black out. And, frankly, looking back on the day he’d had, blacking out didn’t seem like the best option at the moment. So he kissed Bond back.  
Kissing Bond on the other hand, Q thought, was most like riding half-wild tiger. Exhilarating. Terrifying. And so damned addictive Q wondered how he ever said no to the man.  
“No fucking, remember Bond?” Q mumbled, reluctantly pushing Bond away as the elevator dinged.  
“Probably,” Bond muttered back, moving to lap at Q’s neck, “You do realize that’s basically just a challenge for me to get you very, very drunk?”  
“I don’t really care how drunk you get me, James, as long as you keep me in my flat and away from my computer. I think I’ve ruined enough for one day, don’t you?”  
Bond grinned, pushing his way into Q’s flat and flicking open the liquor cabinet, reaching for two glasses as he did.


	8. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is called to M's office following the April Fool's fiasco. M advises him to take a look at Eve Moneypenny's e-mail.

Q had expected it. Really, he would have been an idiot not to.  
“Q,”  
“M.” Q sighed, rubbing his head and trying to subtly cover the red splotches trailing down his neck from the previous night with his unseasonably heavy scarf, silently cursing Bond for his reckless disregard of propriety.  
“Q,” M leaned forward across his desk, looking as exhausted as Q felt, “Am I going to have to convince the prime minister to declare April 1st a national holiday to excuse giving all of MI6 the day off?”  
“I suppose ‘sorry’ is a bit tame to cover it?” Q asked meekly. The twist of M’s thin mouth was answer enough. The director of MI6 leaned back again, pouring himself a glass of water from the crystal bottle that stood on the desk, taking a swig from it with a grimace,  
“Shall I catalog the damage, Quartermaster?”  
Q was about to answer that it wasn’t necessary, then decided it was best to let M rant a bit before daring to interrupt.  
“Henry was still sobbing downstairs last night when I left, along with a few others. My 00 department is spattered with paint in creative designs, the electrical grid is still partially off-line, the very expensive doors to Q-Branch have been blown wide open with an umber of high-power explosives really not meant for anything more practical than Bond’s ridiculous stunts, our accounting department is submerged in foam, every screen in the place is still playing some sort of distasteful home movie compilation you constructed if I’m not much mistaken, and I’m still rather sore that your indiscretion seems to have led to Eve winning the office pool.”  
Q blinked. He had been with M up until the last comment.  
“Sorry, sir, what?” he asked, “office pool?”  
M’s grin was just slightly evil. He stared pointedly at Q’s scarf, asking:  
“Cold, are we, Q?”  
Q froze, a blush seeping across his ivory cheeks. Finally, he sighed, loosing the scarf and letting it pool in his lap, rubbing absently at the red testaments to 007’s teeth. M laughed,  
“Q, were you honestly so wrapped up in terrorist cells and the attractions of James Bond these past few months that you forgot to do your usual security check of MI6 employee communications?” M inquired blithely.  
“Sir?” Q asked, more confused than ever.  
“Check Eve Moneypenny’s outgoing e-mails for the past few months, Q,” M advised, “you may go. Next year, tell me before you unleash all our little boys, will you?”  
Q nodded absently, getting up and padding back down to his domain, ignoring the questions and comments from the rest of Q-Branch. He pulled up Eve’s e-mail, slightly disappointed that he didn’t get the chance to unleash his newest hacking software (he’d figured her password out ages ago), simply typing in: N0t-y0ur-S3cr3tary, skimming through his friend’s recent correspondences with a serious of quick little flicks of the keys.  
“Feeling better, Q?”  
Q jumped. A string of letters imprinted itself in Eve’s e-mail. Strong hands curled themselves in Q’s mussed-up hair, trailing careful fingers over the red marks on his neck. James Bond had arrived.  
“Bond,” Q grumbled, “What have I told you about distractions while I’m working?”  
“You must admit my motivations for listening to you thin little thing are rather slim,” Bond said fondly. Q raised an eyebrow,  
“Really Bond,” he began archly, “I would have though the paintball and fire-foam incidents more than enough to establish a viable stick to hit you with. Imagine the damage I could do to you while not intoxicated.”  
“Stick? Whatever happened to the carrot?” Bond chuckled, licking his way up to the lobe of Q’s ear, “and if I remember correctly, Q-Branch was rather outclassed when it came right down to it.”  
“No carrots for you, Bond,” Q griped, “working, remember.”  
“And going through Moneypenny’s e-mails counts as work?” Bond joked, glancing at Q’s computer screen over the genius’s shoulder. Q would have started banging his head repeatedly against his desk had his debilitating headache not threatened to reduce him to tears.  
“Bond, if I promise to get you an exploding pen, will you leave?”  
“No.”  
“See!” Q cried, “This is why I don’t give you carrots.”  
Bond grinned,  
“You give me carrots no matter what I do, Q. not the best disciplinary tactic, in my opinion.”  
Q ignored him, returning to Eve’s e-mail in the hopes that the agent would get bored and go away.  
Three minutes later, Q clicked on a thread sent out to the entire 00 division, as well as a few other high-ranking MI6 personnel.  
He stopped typing. He blinked.  
“Bond,” he asked warningly, “please don’t tell me you recognize this e-mail.”  
Bond looked up from the crook of Q’s neck,  
“Hm? Oh. Yes.”  
Q could have hit the man. 

EVE MONEYPENNY: To MI-6 employees: It has no doubt failed to escape your notice that our new Quartermaster and agent 007 are either in the process of killing each other, or fucking. Either way, considering the mutually enjoyed fun of betting on the eventual discovery of Henry and 004, as well as the 001 and 005 conundrum, I propose a similar situation for our favorite nymphomaniac and Quartermaster. 50 pounds on fucking in two and a half months.  
TANNER: 25 pounds on 4 months. Fucking, obviously. This is Bond, we’re talking about. To Eve: you do realize Q can hack anything and everything, correct?  
EVE MONEYPENNY: Do you think Q realizes that there are actual living, breathing, people around him anymore  
TANNER: fair point. Still, if Bond comes around, I’m pinning this one on you.  
EVE MONEYPENNY: Bond’s in on it too. 

BOND: 100 pounds on a month and a half  
TANNER: Oi! Bond! You’re betting on yourself?  
BOND: I’ll happily take the money of anyone (Eve) who underestimates my ability to appeal. Even if it is Q.  
EVE MONEYPENNY: I’m not underestimating you, I’m betting on your misjudgment of Q. 

006: 50 pounds on three months. Don’t disappoint, Bond.  
BOND: I’m hurt you think so little of me.  
006: And here I am laughing my arse off that you haven’t realized yet that Q isn’t another one of your blond boffins.  
BOND: one month.  
006: 100 pounds to me, then. 

001: three weeks. 60 pounds.  
EVE MONEYPENNY: the bet’s on Q and Bond, not you and 007.  
001: no, I already won that bet.  
BOND: Dinner?  
001: Italian.

M: four months. 25 pounds.  
BOND: Why?  
M: I have Q’s psych tests in front of me.  
BOND: and my record.  
M: yes.

(THREAD TERMINATES. RE-ENGAGED TWO MONTHS THIRTEEN DAYS TWELVE HOURS LATER)  
(skip to thread continuation)  
(CONFIRM SKIP?)  
(confirm)

EVE MONEYPENNY: that’s the pot to me. Thank you so much, dears.  
BOND: how the hell did you know?  
EVE MONEYPENNY: Q actually smiled when I brought him his Earl Grey, and he’s being suspiciously nervous about the neck of his turtleneck. He also seems to have misplaced his cardigan. Need I go on?  
TANNER: Damn. How the hell do you do it, Bond?  
BOND: trade secret.  
TANNER: load of crap. Try unnaturally blue eyes.

M: Bond, please do be gentle with him. It would be ever so tiresome to find another Quartermaster at this late date.  
BOND: I won’t make any promises.  
EVE MONEYPENNY: Bond…  
BOND: fine! He will remain happy and healthy, that I can guarantee. 

Q glared at Bond, closing his laptop so he could better stare into the infuriating man’s very blue eyes.  
“Bond,” he scowled, “Have I mentioned I bloody hate you?”  
Bond chuckled, pulling Q up and planting a long kiss on his soft lips.  
“No, you don’t”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading!


End file.
